


vii. kidnapped

by tempestaurora



Series: it's okay, we're okay [whumpvember 2018] [7]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Angst, Claustrophobia, Gen, Kidnapping, Whump, Whumptober
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-07
Updated: 2018-11-07
Packaged: 2019-08-20 07:28:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16551554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tempestaurora/pseuds/tempestaurora
Summary: He awoke with a sharp intake of breath, unsure if his eyes were really open with the darkness that surrounded him. His ankles weren’t tied together, neither were his wrists – he was on his side, curled into a ball, and there was only a single pinprick of light in the shape of a small hole, all the way down by his feet.Peter frowned, his mind racing to connect what he was seeing.Ah, got it.Peter was in a box.





	vii. kidnapped

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for the positive response so far! we're almost one third in now

Peter’s spider sense told him it was coming, but he still didn’t dodge in time.

Just outside the school gates, after yelling his goodbyes to Ned, Peter’s ears pricked and his spine tingled and he tried to move, honest, but the volts hit the small of his back anyway, and he fell to his knees anyway.

There were shouts of surprise, of fear, and Peter felt himself being carried, his eyes open but only in a daze. He could see the ground, moving to meet him then being taken away again. Could see army boots, the laces tied by looping the whole way around the ankle before making a bow. Could see black dots, appearing in his vision, then nothing.

He awoke with a sharp intake of breath, unsure if his eyes were really open with the darkness that surrounded him. His ankles weren’t tied together, neither were his wrists – he was on his side, curled into a ball, and there was only a single pinprick of light in the shape of a small hole, all the way down by his feet.

Peter frowned, his mind racing to connect what he was seeing.

_Ah, got it._ Peter was in a box.

It was small – just big enough for him to stretch out his legs, but his head pressed firmly against the wall when he did so. It was cold, made of metal, and there was a single air hole, as far as he could see.

“Good good good good good,” he muttered under his breath, shifting to lie on his back.

Peter was actively trying to avoid the dangerous thoughts about how confining the space was, how much it felt like a coffin. Rather, he pressed his hands against the roof of the box, took a deep breath and pushed. It didn’t budge and he strained against it, trying to weight his body by shoving his feet against the far wall, but still.

As far as Peter knew, he could lift near enough to ten tons. What the hell was stopping him now?

He patted for his watch – the one Tony had given him, connected to Karen with a direct line to Tony as a panic button – but found it missing. In fact, his webshooters were gone, too, as well as his phone and housekeys from his pockets.

He tried shifting, moving onto his front and lifting the lid of the box off by pressing his back against for better leverage, but still nothing moved. God, how was he supposed to get out of this? How was he supposed to-

Peter felt the first inklings of fear pulse through his body. _No, nope. Not going there._ He couldn’t afford to, couldn’t afford to think of anything but the rational.

He was kidnapped in public, right out from school. People would have seen. It would be on the news. Hell – maybe Ned saw, and Ned had Happy’s phone number. Happy would get Mr Stark and Mr Stark would save the day. Easy, easy. He’d track down his phone, maybe bring whatever Avengers are left over, storm the building and save Peter’s life.

No doubt about it.

Peter took long, deep breaths in the dark.

When he got home, he’d have to catch up on homework. He had two pop quizzes next week and midterms would be coming soon. He’d have to change his patrol schedule this week, because he didn’t feel like going out as Spiderman after this, and maybe then he could ask Mr Stark if they could work on the new web combinations he’d thought of. Some of the ones saved in Karen’s system had no practical use – oh, and speaking of Karen, he wanted to update her vocabulary, because while she was learning, she clearly didn’t understand a lot of the slang Peter used.

Right, right. Think of the rational.

It was too soon that he ran out of things to think about. Ran out of plans to make and to do lists, scrapped in his head. He thought about May, how he would be late home from school and she’d get worried, running to his bedroom to see where the Spiderman suit was. Occasionally, he forgot to tell her he was going on patrol – but his suit was in the back of his wardrobe, like always, and she’d see it and realise he was just late as Peter Parker.

And then time would stretch on and nerves would turn to panic and she’d call Mr Stark, just like Ned, and-

Oh God, Oh God, Oh God.

Peter was finding it difficult to breathe. Maybe that was from the lack of oxygen in the box, but maybe it was also from how his heart was beating too quickly for him to catch up with. He really didn’t like small spaces, but at least this was roomier than the lockers he’d been shoved into as a kid. At least this was roomier than the building that had crushed his chest and left him screaming for help that never came.

No, no, no, see these were the thoughts he wasn’t allowed to have.

These were the thoughts that would send him spiralling because he was lying in a metal coffin and he was going to die there. He was going to run out of air and he was going to suffocate on the fear that clogged his throat.

“Help me, help me, help me,” he whispered, trying to talk his nervous energy out of his body. “Help me, help me, someone, someone, someone, _help me!_ ”

Peter choked on a sob, choked on the words, choked on the air that was struggling to fill the container at the rate he was breathing it. He was feeling light-headed, feeling panicked and drifting through some kind of numbness.

“Hello?” he called, his voice breaking. “Someone? Please, please- I don’t want to do this anymore, please! Help me- help me!” Tears stained Peter’s cheeks, running down to his temples and over his ears. He curled onto his side and then they dripped off his nose, hitting the metal with small taps that only Peter would be able to hear.

His chest shook, hands clenched and no one was here. No one was saving him. Where was Mr Stark?

“Help me,” he whispered, words quivering and barely audible. “Please, Mr Stark, help me.”

“I’m coming, kid,” a voice replied from outside the box. Peter tensed, eyes wide. “I’m here, it’s fine, it’s fine.” The voice was undoubtedly Mr Starks, filtering through the Iron Man mask, and there was a pause before- “We need to cut you out of there, okay? The box is sealed. What I need you to do is curl into a super tight ball, okay, bring yourself as close to the air hole over here as possible, can you do that for me?”

Peter nodded, then took a breath. “Y-yeah, I can.” He shuffled down the box, squeezing himself into a ball and choking back his tears as the sound of lasers through metal screeched around his head. It was an echo chamber and Peter heard everything a thousand times, cutting straight through to the bone.

Soon, though, light filtered in and Peter pulled himself back up through the box, blinking and dazed in the light.

“Kid, kid, it’s okay,” Mr Stark said, his faceplate retracted, Iron Man suit intact. Peter tried to stifle a sob on his hand but it came through anyway, and Peter watched as Mr Stark stepped from his suit and pulled Peter in for a tight embrace. “It’s okay, Pete. We’re okay. I’m so sorry this happened, so sorry.”

Peter cried into Mr Stark’s chest and ignored the burning embarrassment he felt about it. Eventually, he was carried out of what was once a sealed, metal box and lifted back through a warehouse of unconscious and dead bodies that littered the ground. Peter squeezed his eyes shut, his hands clamping down on the armour that held him aloft.

“You’re okay,” Mr Stark said the whole way, repeating it as they went. Outside, there would be police, ambulances, a quinjet hovering above it all. There would be helicopters and news reporters, waiting to see the kid that was stolen from his school to get the attention of Tony Stark ( _your actions killed my family, Stark, so now I’ll kill yours_ ) and ask why he was so important.

But for now, Peter held on tight and Mr Stark didn’t let go. They walked through the quiet, “You’re okay” repeated over and over and over until Peter was considering believing it. And then they went home.

**Author's Note:**

> hey! thanks for reading! talk to me in the comments and let me know what you thought!
> 
> tomorrow: fever. there'll be fluff. i promise. today's fic is also where the series title came from!


End file.
